These are odd times and, if the present makes no sense at all, one can sometimes look to the past for a clue. Everything that has ever happened to us is remembered even if we have forgotten it. But, alas, history holds no answers for me because I know nothing of it.

Let me explain.

My hand is extended. Come.

I was educated by Jesuits or, as we learned to call them, Jesus' SS. Fear not, I am over it now, though some scars remain. I do, however, have to thank them for helping me lose all interest in organised religion and nurturing my intense contempt of authority.

They were a strange bunch, floating around the school in their black robes and taking great delight in beating the living daylights out of us for the most petty of classroom diversions. I recall a friend getting his hand lacerated with a cane because he had sneezed in class. Another probably deserved it for correcting a teacher's pronunciation of Marseille. There are other ways of doing it than shouting, "It's Mar-say, you c*nt!", I suppose but I digress.

We knew they took great delight in delivering these corrections because we once witnessed a particularly sadistic bastard "enjoying himself" through a window after he had dismissed a boy from a beating. This was, of course, in the days before the ability to record video on a mobile device was available or else our lives would have been very, very different.

One of the most peculiar of the schoolmasters was Father William Blundell. He was a large, ugly, balding man with the most crooked of yellow teeth, fetid breath, crusty hands and he spat uncontrollably when he spoke. He wouldn't have looked out of place as an extra in 'The Name of the Rose'. He had wobbly jowls, glassy, dead-fish eyes and smelled vaguely of cabbage and a mixture of bodily fluids. His gown was stained with the remnants of various suppers and what looked like a mixture of bodily fluids which would go some way to explain matters. Receiving communion from his fingers was not pleasant but he was, however, one of the least likely to send you for a smashed hand for youthful behaviour. For that, we were very grateful.

Father Blundell was a history teacher. I use the word teacher in a very loose sense because his idea of teaching was to stand at the front of the class and read aloud from a textbook whilst we were supposed to listen in silence. We rarely did and preferred to entertain ourselves. We soon learned that he was also a stubborn old sod and did not like these interruptions. If a noise disturbed his monologues, rather than pick up where he left off, he would start at the beginning again and one day we pressed this beautiful big button big time.

On this particular occasion we were "learning" all about the English Civil War. As soon as the good Father said, "Oliver Cromwell..." the first farmyard sound rose from the back of the room.

"Moooo!"

Blundell looked up with a scowl shook his head and repeated, "Oliver Cromwell..."

"Baaaaa!"

"Oliver Cromwell..."

"Oink!"

You get the picture.

This went on for a good twenty minutes. I told you he was stubborn. Eventually the farmyard noises merged into each other with everyone making their chosen sound at the same time. It sounded like a slaughterhouse.

Blundell finally gave up on his practical demonstration of history repeating itself and let the book fall from his hands to the floor. With his arms by his sides, his eyes seemed to roll back into their sockets and his face grew redder and redder. His head began to shake uncontrollably and his whole, jowly face wobbled in a bizarre kind of perpetual motion. His mouth was forming words which, at first, no-one could decipher. Thick, sticky white spittle flew from his lips and spattered onto the floor and the front row of desks. Then, amid the cacophony, he delivered an almost whispered line that will stay with me forever.

"What this country needs is a fucking good war."



Most peculiar, Mama.



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I promise not to do this every day